Page 49 of An Offer By the Beastly Duke

She looked at the gray. She looked at Malcolm’s steady, challenging gaze. She looked at Nicholas, who had gone carefully blank.

“How long do you expect me to demonstrate for?” she asked.

“Ten minutes.”

She crossed the yard to the mounting block. Mira was still. Penelope put her foot in the stirrup, and before she could brace herself, his hand came to her waist.

It was practical. She knew it was practical, the way a riding master or a groom would assist a lady. The touch lingered for all of two seconds. But through the thin linen of her dress, the heat of his palm felt like a brand. It sent a jolt of electricity up her spine that made her breath hitch in her throat.

She settled into the saddle and stared straight ahead with a mask of complete composure.

“Shoulders,” Malcolm corrected, standing at her stirrup.

She loosened them.

“Now the reins.” He stepped closer, his chest nearly brushing her knee. He reached up, and his fingers moved hers into the correct position. His touch was brief, adjusting the angle of her right hand with two fingers, but it felt like a silent conversation. “Light hands, Penelope. You want contact, not a grip. The horse is not your enemy.”

“I understand the principle.”

“Your knuckles were white. You were gripping.”

She adjusted, relaxing her fingers. The difference in the mare’s posture was immediate.

He walked her through the same exercises he’d given Nicholas. The same economy of language, the same sharp attention to detail.

There was no condescension in his voice, no softening because she was a woman. She was a student, and the evenness of that treatment felt, strangely, like the highest form of respect he could offer.

“Mama, you look like you are actually riding!” Nicholas called out from the fence, grinning.

“Thank you, darling,” she said, allowing herself a small smile.

“Your back was very bent before, like an old lady’s. It’s much better now, though!”

“Thank you, Nicholas. That is quite enough.”

She thought she heard a low, amused huff from Malcolm’s direction. She kept her eyes fixed forward.

Nicholas’ lesson resumed after hers. He had found his focus now, and he moved through the instructions with a speed that was genuinely surprising. The left knee corrected on the second reminder. His hands stayed low and relaxed. His gaze stayed ahead.

At the end of the third circuit, Malcolm stopped. He looked at Nicholas, the posture, the hands, the quiet confidence.

“That will do for today,” he said.

Nicholas dismounted with the sequence in perfect order and patted Bramble’s neck. He handed the reins to a waiting groom and turned around, his face glowing.

“May I come back on Thursday?” Nicholas asked, looking between Penelope and Malcolm.

“If your mother agrees,” Malcolm said, his eyes moving to Penelope.

She met his gaze, the air between them still humming from the contact earlier. “Thursday is suitable.”

Nicholas gave Hector a comprehensive final goodbye that involved both hands and most of the dog’s ears. Then he straightened and said, “Thank you, Your Grace.”

The groom disappeared into the stalls. The yard went quiet.

Penelope and Malcolm stood in the center of the cobbles. She turned toward the gate. “Good day, Your Grace.”

“I shall send a note before Thursday,” he said from behind her.